


Virgil's Touch

by Thom_R_Phan



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Ishval Civil War, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-07-05 10:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thom_R_Phan/pseuds/Thom_R_Phan
Summary: .





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hughes comes to check on his two friends doing overwatch security for the camp.

When the monsoon’s hit and their sand-filled hell turned into streams of mud, there wasn’t much they could do. The Hero of Ishval was useless as either a weapon or shield to his men, while the Hawk’s Eye found her scope mercifully empty for once in many months. Combat patrols were still sent out, and with them went the young officer whose glasses for once weren’t covered in dust or his knife with blood. For now, at least this… war …was at a standstill. But with the reprieve came the bitter realization that there was now no gunfire to drown out their own screaming, muddied souls. Even as they realized that they could not look each other in the eye, the three found themselves together all too often to not admit that hell could not be escaped alone. If only they had Virgil to guide them.

Roy barely shifted when Maes joined them in the ruined room, just a tilt of his head and a tenseness in his hand to decide if the intruder need to be bathed in fire. The laconic threat ended with the sight of familiar spectacles, allowing the young alchemist his reprieve as he slumped back against the outer wall. His head burying itself into his chest in a downtrodden search for sleep. Sleep that would not come, for him or his companion, prone beside him. Hawkeye’s rifle aimed out into the city through the ruined section of wall façade, blending into the sheared off rubble that once had been Kimblee’s work. Neither were speaking to each other; Roy’s face spoke only of wear, and where Riza’s face visible you would see where the spray of the monsoon outside mixed with sand to give her dead eyes like her father.

Neither spoke, apparently too tired to verbally acknowledge their friend. Even when Maes brought up the subject of dinner, barely bringing the volume above a whisper, all he got at first was a half-hearted grunt from Roy. Then Riza’s boot, splayed out for the sake of her shooting position and yet kept just close enough so that Roy’s could stretch over to connect them, brushed up against the one leaning on it. Only with this did Roy bother to look up. “No smoke.”

“You two need something warm. Hawkeye must be freezing with the amount of rain coming in. Don’t worry, I’ll do it in the hallway for the smoke. Should be done by the time her over watch shift is over. Her replacement was heading to his own perch when I left.”

Roy hesitated, still not hungry, but Maes knew him too well. He wouldn’t eat for his own sake, yet take any reason to give Riza even the slightest bit of comfort. “Right, thanks.”

Neither of the men saw the flash hidden by their shelter, and with Riza focused on the silent city who knew what she saw. All of them could hear the roar of thunder as it shuddered the walls. Stiffening Riza for the anxious second it took for Roy to pres their boots back together and whisper “thunder” over to her. A conclusion she could have made for herself, only made true by an old friend’s comforting tone. Some way to calm rattled nerves. “I’m going to go check if Maes is done.”

Riza hesitated for a second before she relented with two taps of her boots. Sending her superior officer on his way as she began the slow, inching process of moving out of her perch and the line of site of any spotter that might call her in. Doing her best to ignore the soft voices from the hall.

“They’ve started calling in artillery on her. Nothing big, but all it would take is a lucky mortar. She hasn’t been on the roof in ages either.”

“The Ishvalans certainly have enough of those to throw around. How about you? You look like hell.”

“I’m fine. They’ve put me on restricted duty until the monsoons pass. I volunteered to help pull security for the time being, at least here I wouldn’t be useless if it comes down to it.”

“Roy, you need to sleep. Eating more often wouldn’t hurt either.”

“I’m fine, really. How are the patrols?”

“Freezing. We’re not finding much, but command wants us out there to keep up the pressute. It’s a stalemate though. No can do much until the weather passes. With any luck everyone will have left across the dessert by the time it clears up.”

“Keep dreaming Hughes.”

“I will. Go get Riza. Last time I entered without you she almost shot me.”

Roy didn’t take the opportunity for banter, or comment on how twitchy the sniper had become these last few months. Instead turning back so he could toss a pebble across the floor, where clattered quietly to bounce of the wall before stopping against Hawkeye’s side. Having moved slowly and steadily while the two men spoke, all it took was for her to roll onto her side into Mustang’s previous position and she was clear of any observers. Even she didn’t feel like fighting Hughes when it came to her need to eat.

Joining them in the hallway, she shrugged off her wet trench to hang it on the wall behind their small fire pit of scavenged tile work. Suppressing a shiver from the wind outside before she took her seat next to the fire and pretended not to notice the dining room chair that had been scrounged for their warmth. The food itself was bland rations, and none of them moved to complain. The only reason two of them were even eating was because Hughes had almost dragged them over to eat. Not that they would ever let him, that would have admitted the fact that none of them were fine. Admitted that normalcy was something way above the 7th layer, away from the gunfire and death.

When the food was done, Hawkeye and Hughes traded quiet words over Graces latest letter. A safe subject that let at least one of them rest easier in their thoughts of the future. Their voices dropping lower and lower as Roy finally fell asleep after too many hours of wakefulness. Supported first by the wall behind him, only to slump over onto Riza’s shoulder. Her only response to the invasion was to shift closer, arguably for her own warmth rather than to flatten the precarious angle of Roy’s neck.

“I should let you two get some sleep. Do you need help moving him or…”

“He’ll wake up in a minute or two, I can send him on his way then.”

“Lucky folks you two are, staying under a roof while I’ll be all alone in my wet tent.” Maes voice pitched as sarcastic as possible for the jokes sake.

“Don’t worry. If this place crashes on us, I’m sure you’ll get your tent mate back.”

“So kind Hawkeye. Goodnight.”

Maes grabbed his rifle after that, leaving his friends to huddle next to a dying fire. In a fair world, it would be romantic, here it just looked like an act of desperation. Which is why he didn’t say anything when he heard Roy’s scream from a night terror minute later across camp, and made a point of deflecting it with comments over some poor Ishvalan getting caught. Just like he deflected any knowledge that their building only had two cots on the floor they used, both in the same room and both were occupied each night. Never touching, but enough that rumors would doubtlessly spread if he hadn’t made jokes about Roy’s snoring forcing Riza to the opposite end of the building. They were his friends, and he only wanted them to be happy.


	2. Chapter 2

Virgil’s Touch, 2

The rain came down its steady wave for the eighth day in a row as Hughes stepped out into its embrace. Leaving the Hawk’s nest and its quiet desperation he made his way across camp. Several of the men could be seen going between positions, heads down and sprinting to stay however dry they could. Hughes had done that for the first day, right up until his patrol had tried to hastily clear one of the buildings. If they had been just a little slower he would be in his tent right now, rereading Gracia’s letter and doing his best to pretend Mustang was the only one with night terrors. He could always tell who was still on full duty despite the weather, they were the ones who took the time to look him in the eye for a proper threat assessment rather than run past. You had to get used to the cold and wet, or accept that you were going to end up sprinting into an ambush one day.

Instead of his tent he was making his way to the field hospital. The largest tent in their secure little corner of the city. The higher-ups had tried to set up the hospital in one of the religious buildings at first, but even they learned eventually. The field-medics and doctors finally explaining that until they could get a strong enough material, all the hard walls did would just create more secondary shrapnel when the hospital was inevitably attacked.

Walking up to the front entrance he had every intention of walking right in. Just because he accepted the cold and wet as necessary didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy getting out of it., but he found the way blocked. The cloak next to the door he had assumed was hastily protected gear stood up to an impressive height. Blocking his way with a silent glower. There was nothing warm behind those eyes, just a quiet, cold sense of duty that would leave even Hawkeye at match.

It was like staring into a statue. Not an ounce of unnecessary movement was being made. And though much of his figure was hidden behind the cloak, what little could be seen could have been chiseled straight out of an ancient mythic.

“Hey there, didn’t see you there with all this rain. Water and glasses not really the best matches I guess. You got a name there?”

But the closer he looked, the more he knew he wouldn’t get a response. This wasn’t a statue of marble or limestone. Whoever this man was, he had been carved from granite. Hard stone ill-suited to such details, it cracked easily without excessive maintenance. And whoever this was ignoring the hypothermic conditions so easily, he looked like he’d be growing moss for a mustache if he was found anywhere else in Amestris.

“My names Captain Hughes. Hard to believe, trust me. Feels like I graduated from the academy a year ago. But I guess the extra couple months and everyone else dying made that pretty impossible to avoid. Still, just to clear the air here, why don’t I give you some ID. No point in taking me at my word when HQ gave us these fancy papers to wave around. Just going to reach in my left side pocket here, nice and slowly to. Patrolling all day in this cold, not like I have the energy to do much quickly.” His voice slow and patient, with a small laugh at his own joke that didn’t have a trace of nervousness. Even after his fist month here in Ishval, it was hard to be scared over much of anything anymore.

The statue clinked beneath the cloak. No movement though, telling Hughes he was right to assume he was armed underneath there. But that was the only sense of movement as he held out his ID.

“Two of my men are in there. Injured on patrol. I need to know if I need to write a letter tonight.”

His voice turned a little there at the end. It wasn’t the jovial tone he was known for, and he knew that. It was tone he hated, prayed every day that Gracia would never need to hear. Clear and unfettered, it was the voice of a killer and he knew it. The statue knew it as well, yet took his time inspecting the ID without doubt as to his duty. When he was done, he didn’t nod or let his eyes lose their cold fire, just turned them to face the ground. Returning to his seat next to the entrance. As if this wasn’t one of the worst monsoon’s in recent history.

 

Walking into the tent, Hughes made his way slowly through the field hospital. He would never forgive himself for walking past one of his men. When he was just a lieutenant that had seemed an impossible task with just twenty souls. These days, he felt more and more like Mustang. It was hard not to think of every single one as his.

In the early night and dark of the rain, the hospital was blessedly quiet. Their operations cycled down to let the patients rest and medics to wait out for the next emergency. Most of the men were asleep, but a few were up. Many faces he recognized. Roy had said it well, there were no heroes in this war. But there were good men in a bad place, and each deserved more than the quiet nod of respect that he gave them.

Making his way to the medic on duty, he kept his voice quiet as he asked about his men’s condition.

“They both survived operations. Looks like your private took his gut shot well, but they have him on heavy meds so he won’t move around on accident while his internals are all messed up. Your other man had to lose the leg, but he’ll be fine. Amputation was clean, so he said he would stick around until we can get them both on their way to the Rush Valley fort.”

“He awake?”

“No, we started putting the men to sleep their first couple nights just in case. Situations escalate quickly here, so we had to adjust the SOP. They’ll be awake by lunch tomorrow.”

“I’m on the day patrol roster.”

“In this rain? Sucks man at least night patrol can find a little cover. Come ‘round ‘bout dinner then. Don’t bring food, but if you can bring something to perk them up that’s usually helps.”

“Alright, thanks. By the way, what’s with the guy outside? Didn’t thinks you guys had a detail.”

“The Major? Heh, he’s not really a detail. No idea, he’s been here a while so I’ve never seen his report. Walking wounded of some sort.”

“Need help getting him inside?”

“Oh, hell no. Guy saved my life enough times I’m not taking chances. If he thinks he’s fine out there, I’m not going to argue. I got family to get back to.”

“Saved from what? Didn’t think any of the Ishvalns made it this far into camp.”

The field medic tipped back in his chair. You didn’t see that much around here when Hughes thought about it. Took an extra second for you to respond to an ambush. Any rumbling and you fall on your back in the middle of a firefight probably while it’s still brewing. Plus, the chairs were either loose crates or the military-grade-cheap folders. You had to have either a suicidal recklessness or supreme confidence. And the grin he was sporting wasn’t from a gambler, it was the tired eyes of a veteran who knew exactly the risk he was taking and knew it was minimal enough to just not care. Probably hand him a beer and he would feel just as comfortable here as he would in downtown central. “Mortars mate; versus our very own Dog of the Military.”

VAV

V

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to see Hughes/Gracias wedding, but there seemed more to do in Ishval than anywhere else. VT was originally a one-shot, but it did seem to fit the style by asking what Armstrong was doing. Because if he literally fled across the desert he wouldn't still be a major, but a severe-PTSD case could find himself off the promotion track and then still be active in a desk job as Hughes partner. And the Major wouldn't be able to fight for himself in a genocide, but he seems like someone who would always try to protect a wounded soldier. Working on a 3rd chapter, want a 4th. After that, story would definitely be done but I make no promises.


	3. Chapter 3

Virgil’s Touch, 3

The Ishvalans didn’t leave during the monsoons. Hughes found that part out the hard way.

They clearly knew when the monsoons were set to ease off, and his reports to superiors of consolidating movements had been ignored in the week leading up. Two days before the rains finally settled, a series of newly constructed barricades were set up across the city. Catching the night patrol off guard, poor bastards had it rough. By the time the reserves and day patrol were mobilized the city found itself with new borders drawn. It was a night for changes.

Sprinting through the darkness and cold the last night of the monsoon, Hughes desperately tried to set up his own perimeter on the southern front. He needed the men to secure some of the larger houses so they could get some high ground. The Monsoon had kept those barricades low, just a little room vertical and they could law down even a little suppressing fire. But that thought was interrupted by the chatter of the Ishvalans own. Tearing through plaster on the other side of the building, He had no time to debate if this was the right building, he needed to get his team inside before the machine-gun realized the flank being set up and cut them down. Throwing open the door, he took point as they moved to clear the building. As a captain, he was supposed to be delegating, but to say they had no time would take more seconds than they had.

Which was how he found himself face-to-face with a monk who wasted no time in disarming him from his rifel and stabbing for Hughes face with the bayonet that he had attached himself just minutes ago.

His instincts saved him, slipping the bayonet and diving into the monk. It was supposed to be a tackle, and it certainly had that effect, but it felt like a birds-nest of limbs going to the ground. He didn’t even see the blows, the palm strikes of the monk destroying first the wood floor, then one of his floating ribs, and what would have been larynx if the monk hadn’t been stopped. The weight of that third strike driving a punching dagger straight through his ribs and into his heart.

Hughes lay on the ground breathing hard, his hand so tight on the dagger he was pretty sure he had lost circulation already. There was no sense of accomplishment as his team moved past him, well aware that this task was more important than checking if he was okay. And seconds later he could hear the steady crack of their fire forcing the Ishvalans out of their barricade. They would gain more ground before this was over, but if they couldn’t establish another shooting position he could at least keep most of his men alive.

“Captain Hughes.”

His eyes weary, he managed with an effort to fix his skewed glasses before wearily muttering back. “Major Mustang.”

“Give you a hand?”

“Only if its hold a whiskey, neat.”

Mustang smiled, that weary smile of his, as he helped his friend off the ground. “Command plans to withdraw the southern front back to the camp. They think if we get the over-watch units to help we can hold them off easily enough until the storms break.”

“Hospital is on the southern side of camp. First machine gun they set up will probably kill everyone there.”

“And over-watch still can’t see shit. This front can’t break.”

“What do you need?”

“I’m going to leave a radio team here, set up some communications for me. I need to get a clearer picture of the front.”

“I’ll even fix up some mimosa’s while I’m standing around. What about you?”

“Lt. Jaques went down with the initial assault, I’m taking his platoon up front to the spearhead. If we can break through these barricades they’ll be stuck going building to building like the rest of us.”

“Thought you were useless in the rain.” Hughes said.

“Thought you couldn’t see without your glasses.” Roy replied. “By the way, command is transferring you to intelligence. Someone up there using your report to cover his ass over this FUBAR I’d guess.”

“In all this, of course they are. What are the odds they transfer me back after it’s over?”

“About as good as you sending out your letters on time today.”

“Roy, you poor fool, I wrote them a week ago. Post already has them to send out.”

They shared another weary smile. Neither of them were happy, but at least they weren’t doing nothing. Roy’s gloves were stowed away in his pockets and he carried a standard issue carbine. Without even saying anything, Hughes passed over his spare clips and his single issued grenade. Retrieving his own rifle, noting sadly that they bayonet had struck something when he had slipped, he set it up at the table in the back corner as he watched his friend leave. Officially Mustang wasn’t part of this unit, as a state alchemist he wasn’t part of any unit really, but by the way the platoon was following him into the fighting there was no doubt that in this moment he was in command.

“Captain Hughes?” He turned to find a shorter man who looked scruffier than most soldiers, and heavier for that matter, standing next to him. “Sergeant Breda, I was told to meet up with you.”

“Glad to see you sergeant.” A statement that became sincerer when he noticed that the ‘communication’ team seemed to mostly consist of building security. The only communications in this case was a single radio operator and the Sergeant himself. “Especially if that backpack your carrying has maps.”

“Major Mustang said you’d need southern sector.”

“It would help…”

“Also, grabbed one for the eastern sector since that’s where all the reinforcements seem to be coming from. Word on the vine is that Eastern sector was the heaviest first night, but they turned it into a pincer sometime around dinner.”

“Who’s holding the north then?”

“Basque Grand himself sir, we established contact while were deploying here. I brought a city map, figure we’re going to need to do some grand theatrics on the fly anyways might as well write them down.”

“…done this once or twice then sergeant?”

“What? Grand heroics to save the day because Major Mustang had a rough idea?”

“Something like that.” Hughes said.

“First time with a Captain to help.” Breda tried his best to match his words with a smile, but the way his shrug barely managed to move said more.

“Good answer, let me get your boy here my command codes and if we make it out of this, you’re on margarita duty.”

V

The battle lasted four days.

It seemed clear that the Ishvalans had planned well. Setting up their positions to encircle the Amestrians during the monsoon, after a solid month of the soldiers ducking their heads against the rain their eyes weren’t as peeled during the initial assault. And the strategy clearly held that after the initial rainy assault, the break in the monsoon would signal the Ishvalans own reinforcements and allow them to turn temporary barricades permanent. But when the monsoon broke, it was the Amestrians who received their reinforcements.

The East sector had broken, though command had sent a constant stream of sporadic units to fill the gaps, the lack of command chain had made defeat inevitable before the water even stopped on the second day. But even while the east had broken, the Ishvalans found themselves unable to press their advantage as far as the camp as they squeezed between a strong northern and southern border fire. Mustang was no fool, before he had even left to meet up with Hughes he had assigned Hawkeye her own infiltration unit. Sending them into the firefight right along the southern eastern border. Her rifle being put to good use, as she systematically broke down each defensible barricade that might cause issues. And to the infiltration teams credit, they managed to get her into a warzone, and constantly moving for the next two days despite the intensity of the fighting. Hughes was not surprised. The young sergeant who led the team was said to be one of the best, an officer who had quite the academy to reach the front faster. He had high hopes for Sergeant Havoc.

In contrast to Mustangs carefully coordinated flank attacks, Basque Grand’s orders had been simple. Wherever a street was blocked, he called in an artillery strike. The simple barricades were enough for a machine gun to be emplaced and the general had no interest in risking his men for nothing, and so the north became rubble for the piles. When the Eastern Sector broke, and the Hawk’s eye pivoted her focus she found herself an ally in the form of an entire squad of the artillery forward observers looking on from the northern sector. Neither could say it from across a battlefield, but as the Crimson and Silver Alchemist made their way into the sector there also proved a moment’s hesitation to halt their own efforts.

It was a war, plain and simple.

Much of his recent life had been full of senseless killing. But in these past few days, it was hard to view the other side as the lesser party. They had been organized, well equipped, and forward thinking. And a small part of him noted that for the first time in a while, there was no non-combatants. Maybe some had fled after all, course his reports didn’t say that.

The Ishvalans also had one other advantage: they were motivated.

Every step Roy took on the battlefield, Hughes could watch the men change. It was an army of killers who wanted nothing more than to rest, and Roy knew that. He wasn’t General Basque, urging the men to attack hard and kill fast. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and the men knew it. When the soldiers saw him give orders, they were seeing a volunteer. A word that seemed to make him more dangerous than any alchemist on the field. That word alone had turned the southern sector into a dynamic defense. The men weren’t fighting to kill, they fought because they knew if they broke their friends and comrades lying in the field hospital would die immediately.

And because they fought, they would see Mustang beside them wherever it was worst, unnervingly shooting right alongside them with a standard-issue carbine, helping them drag the wounded away as if he wasn’t the highest-ranking man around, asking them every time to help him save every person they could, and so they did. They would hear Hughes through the headsets personally, not some operator, making jokes just as easily as he asked them to move to support one of the other squads. Then, occasionally, when everything seemed lost and the Ishvalans were seconds away from breaking through, there would be nothing. A moment of silence in the war as a single rifle rang out from so far away that it couldn’t be heard by the soldiers and “rebel” fighters, killing just one person. The Hawk’s Eye doing her duty as their angel of death.

Four days of fighting, the high tide of the Ishvalan’s survival.

VAV

V

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Key notes. Breda and Havoc are Ishval veterans here, and I tried to allude to the idea that this battle was where Mustang became so popular. It’s implied often that Mustang earned loyalty in the war through wielding flame alchemy. I wanted to have the scene instead stress his leadership skills, at the front and motivational. Similarly contrasted, Hughes is the only one directly in a fight. There I wanted to hint at the idea that survivors tend to have an almost obsession level with whatever tool helped them through and Hughes, a war veteran from a city-fighting guerilla war in a world of realistic (mostly) gun usage and magic, instinctively draws knives.
> 
> This is the first battle scene I’ve ever written, and I wanted it to come off different. Chap 1&2 were both gritty depressing moments of downtime. I’d call it noticeable stillness. Chap 3 is when it switches to a full battle without prelude. Stillness to war in just a second. And not a fight, Hughes gets in knife fight for two sentences, a flank attack a mile long gets a paragraph.


End file.
